The Lists We Make
by xPhineasx
Summary: There is no moral to this story, but if you are the kind of reader who insists on one, it is about this: An Agent, his Quartermaster, and the ways in which their lives crisscross. 00Q, a series of vignettes.


The Lists We Make 

Not all lists are chronological, because there are times when the logic and progression of time fails us.

Rather, we order the world by a web of connective associations, and through these efforts we hope to be the spiders of that web and not the flies.

001.

Bond's body is covered in scars. Most of them are small: little blemishes and razor thin lines from old shaving accidents and sloppy knife fights. Some of them are larger: raised spider webs of tissue that writhe across his skin where a bullet or bit of shrapnel sank into his body, or the dark splash of an old burn from an overlooked grenade. Each of them in unique.

There is the little crescent shaped line just above his lip.

The jagged crag along the back of his left calf.

The puckered knot along his right shoulder.

There are dozens of them.

Each scar has a story, though Bond doesn't remember most of them. He can't narrate the lives of those scars, where they where born, how they healed, which ones hurt. They are the forgotten amalgamation of his life, with no thread to connect them and force them to make sense.

In the aching absence of those stories, Q takes to learning the scars in a tactile way. He finds them fascinating, a quantifiable and measurable record of Bond's life with no context to illuminate or muddle. He runs his fingers over each of them, memorizing their patterns and textures. He feels the way the skin bends and ripples around each scar, where it is, how it patterns Bond. He counts each and every one, mentally cataloging them.

And each time Bond returns from a mission, Q takes his time to count them all again, just in case there are any new ones.

. . .

002.

Sins

Wrath; he feels it in his bones. As he sends one, two, three, four men crumbling to their knees, wrath sits under his bones and laughs and laughs and seethes and tastes the blood on his lips.

Greed; when he feels the heavy weight of Euros being thrown at his feet in a duffle along with a plea of mercy. Greed so strong that he almost takes it, but greed reminds him that his MI6 salary puts this tithe to shame anyway, so he pulls the trigger.

Sloth; when he's off the clock. Swirling in martinis and Egyptian cotton bed sheets with an outrageous thread count. He lies there, decadent, for as long as the spinning world allows.

Pride; the surge he gets when someone recognizes his name. The sparkle in a woman's eyes, the glimmer in a man's: they say his name back to him, tasting it, and he can hear the reverence on their lips.

Lust; which everyone knows about. Men and women, sweat and skin. He leaves a trail of it around the globe.

Envy; when he sees the Happy Ones. People who are truly content. At Peace. A life that would drive him crazy of course, but still, it is a yearning.

And gluttony; gluttony at the end of it all when he gets home and finds Q sitting on his bed in just his pajama bottoms. He wants to devour the man, eat him up, glut himself on his moans and gasps and sweat.

And in Q he releases rage when they bicker. His greed when he spoils Q with presents from around the world that Q has no want for. His sloth when he falls asleep with his head pressed into Q's lap and sleeps and sleeps. Pride, when Q looks at him and tries to contain a grin because for some reason Q is proud to have him in these moments. Lust when he lifts Q off the ground and throws his glasses to the floor and off to bed they go. Envy whenever anyone else gives Q a look when they are out at the pub; Q makes him very nearly happy and he won't lose that feeling. Gluttony, Gluttony, it always comes back to gluttony, because Bond wishes he could feast on Q's presence forever.

. . .

003.

The first gift that Q gave to Bond was picking up their tab at the pub. Martinis were not the cheapest drink, and the evening had been long. Bond looked more at ease than Q had ever seen him though, and their conversation sat teetering somewhere between bickering and flirtatious.

"We're closing, mates," the bartender said to the pair. Bond reached for his wallet, but Q held up his hand and slid a card across the table.

Bond furrowed his brow at Q, but didn't protest.

The second gift Bond didn't realize was a gift at first. At first, he assumed that it was some new upgrade or gadget. Q slid the box over to him, acting slightly more fidgety than normal.

Inside the box was a small bronze colored key. "Some new gadgety motorbike?" Bond asked. Q chuckled and shook his head. "Does it explode then? Or...what does it do?" Bond rolled the key over and over in his fingers.

"It opens the door to my flat," Q said and turned to the door. "Use it however often you want."

Bond found that he wasn't totally sure how to respond to that but, well, he didn't protest.

The third gift was his heart, and Q handed it over without either of them realizing. When Bond figured it out though, he didn't protest.

. . .

004.

Q has fallen in love four times.

The first time was in the third grade. The boy's name was Timothy Granger and he had purple trainers. At the time however, Q didn't have the words to say how he felt, and Timothy kissed Samantha Walls behind the loo at lunch before he found them, so that was that.

The second time was in the 11th grade, and it was full of fumbling kisses and trying not to look at each other in maths because they didn't want to draw attention to themselves. His name was Gregory, but he didn't want to be a queer. He ended up back in the closet with a girlfriend and a perpetual sense of unhappiness. Q figured this was for the best in hindsight.

The third time was off at university, and in Q's memory it was mostly about the sex, not that he was complaining. Ronald taught him a lot of things, including how to break up with someone after they shagged half the football team behind your back.

The fourth time was in MI6. Q still isn't sure what the essence of this relationship is. Once again, he feels as though he lacks the words to describe how he feels when James Bond walks into his office with stubble under his chin where he missed shaving. He lacks the words to describe how he feels when those rough calloused hands run over his throat and shoulder blades and along his calves. He lacks the words to articulate waking up and finding Bond sprawled out on the bed next to him, hogging all of the covers.

Maybe someday he'll have the words to describe these things. Until then, he just has the feelings, and he enjoys the ride.

. . .

005.

He only gets three texts that night.

It's 11:59 pm December 31st in Seoul, and Bond orders another martini from the young bartender, whom has long abandoned trying to make the stubborn Englishman try the more traditional fare. Some okroju or yakju, but no, the Englishman wants vodka martinis and will accept no substitute.

Koreans bustled around him ready to celebrate the Gregorian New Year, though these celebrations will pale in comparison to the new Lunar Year parties they will have in a few weeks. Bond is a long way from home and a long way from sober. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he barely notices. Just as the clock rolls over into a fresh new calender, he checks his phone.

_'Happy New Year, 007 – Q" _

Bond doesn't type a reply. Instead he drinks his martini, the sound of fireworks crashing through the air.

It's 12:47am January 1st in Seoul, and Bond is finally sick of drinking martinis with the increasingly drunken and rambunctious crowd. He considers, very briefly, trying to woo one of the other bar patrons back to his hotel room. Maybe the young Korean woman at the end of the bar in a glorious saffron hanbok, or perhaps the Japanese business man loitering near the restroom in an ill fitting Italian suit. Ultimately he decides that both would probably be too much work, and it would be easier to simply go back alone.

He pays his tab and heads for the door as his phone vibrates.

_'Ignoring me, Bond? That's not nice. -Q' _

Once again, Bond ignores it.

It's 1:13 am January 1st, and Bond has reached his hotel room at last. He stumbles into the _Westin Chosun, 320,000 Won a night. _ He kicks the shoes off his feet and lays in the bed without undressing. The celebrating city roars twelve stories down in the streets. He is tired, and alone, and wishing that this bloody mission was over already.

The phone vibrates.

_'Knock, knock, Bond -Q" _

James frowns at the phone, wondering if he was supposed to text back the "who's there" part of the joke, just as an actual knock comes from the door.

He stumbles over and opens the door, gun in hand. It is Q.

"You didn't answer my texts, James. Very rude," Q says, waving the phone back and forth.

"What are you doing here?" Bond asks, but he steps aside, letting Q in the room. "You hate flying."

"And yet here I am." Q sits on the bed and, not so subtly, spreads his legs slightly as he gets comfortable. "I braved hell, high water, international air travel, and South Korean customs to see you. Want to make my visit worthwhile?"

James bloody well does.

. . .

006.

Names are contextual.

"007," he says when they are in MI6. He says it with a grin that hints at more between them than the casual camaraderie that the title suggests. Eve always finds herself chuckling when Q turns to greet Bond, because the affection in that grin is plain as day.

"Bond," he says over the radio, his voice teetering on the precipice of concern. His emotions are not going to be helpful. His worry will not benefit the man on the other side of the globe. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands, staying calm, giving Bond whatever information will help him survive.

"James," he says when they are alone. When James's fingers drag through his hair. When James's lips are on the soft part of his neck just behind the ear.

. . .

007.

There is no moral to this story. There is no neat little ending, no quaint colloquialism to wrap it all up. It's too messy and strange and splintered for that. If you are the kind of reader who must know what all this is about though, it is about only three things:

It is about an old MI6 agent with a lot of miles and a lot of baggage, and at the end of a long day or week or month he likes to hog the covers and sleep for too long.

It is about a fresh young Quartermaster who still has spots, and he finds himself fond of the way he can still surprise his favorite 00 agent.

It is about how their lives crisscross, and nothing more.


End file.
